Page 5 of Tricky Puck

“You should be dressed,” she says, walking into the room and looking around. My bags are packed on the bed. She frowns at the reminder that I’m leaving in the morning. She doesn’t complain or ask me to stay. She knows our first regular season game is in a few days, and she respects my hockey. Hell, she’s my number one fan.

“I am dressed.”

“You’re going in jeans and a Whalers T-shirt? That’s like going on a date in your work clothes. You can do better than that.”

I switch out my T-shirt for a black silk sweater from the closet. I haven’t worn it since I bulked up the last few years, so it’s a little snug.

“How’s this?”

She gives me a grudging nod. I grab my leather jacket from the chair where I’d tossed it and put it on. Grinning at her dismay, I lean down and give her a hug.

“Don’t worry, Grandma. Either she likes me for who I am, or it doesn’t work. I’m not a suit and tie kind of guy—which is what I wear to games, aka work.”

She sighs and waves a hand. “Go ahead and wear your rags. I suppose your clothes won’t hide the fact that you’re a hunk⁠—”

I snort a laugh. “Thank you…?”

She points a finger at me and shakes it. “Just don’t you go and give your date that smarty-pants attitude.” She gives me a kiss, followed by an affectionate pinch on the cheek, her signature parting gesture.

“I hope this girl is worth taking me away from you on my last night in New York for a while.”

“This young lady is worth it, but I’ll let her speak for herself.” She gives me one of those smugly triumphant looks, not quite a smile because she doesn’t gloat. Grandma’s above that, too well respected and too often right to bother. I suppose gloating over and over again would get boring. I don’t gloat, either. Same reason.

We walk downstairs, and I assist her because it’s not easy for her these days. My entire family is on the front porch to see me off as if I’m a kid going on my first date. They live downstairs in the triple-decker while Grandma has the top two floors, the third floor being my room, a transformed attic space where I’ve stayed ever since I was eight years old and my second sister was born.

“You want a selfie and an autograph?” I say to my mother.

“I want to commemorate the day you finally date a marriageable woman.”

I squint my eyes at her and allow half a frown, not wanting to ruin things for Grandma, but Mom should know better. My grinning sisters should all know better, too, that I’m only going along with Grandma temporarily. No way am I really getting married to a stranger—or anyone—any time soon.

“What’s this young lady’s name?” I ask Grandma.

“The matchmaker will introduce you when you get there.”

“You really went to a matchmaker?” She’s taking this far too seriously, and I get a twinge, the kind that makes my chest tighten and my right eye twitch.

“Of course. I wanted to make sure we found the best possible young lady for you. No trouble is too much when it comes to finding your life partner, Lincoln.”

Shit. “Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.

Two of my three sisters have their phones out, taking pictures. I frown, but refrain from giving them the finger. Dad, who’s been typically stoic and silent, would leap into action and beat my ass—or try to—if I did that in front of my mother and Grandma.

I bend and give Grandma a last hug like I’m going off to war.

As I walk down the steps, Rose watches with her hands on her hips, shaking her head like she’s watching me make a big fucking mistake. Or maybe I’m projecting my own premonition. But hell, if I don’t grant Grandma’s fondest wish, wouldn’t that be even a bigger fucking mistake?

I look back at her. “Wait up for me. I won’t be too late.”

My eye twitches one last time in warning, and I get a sick feeling that my life is about to change—and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.

An old lady dressed in what looks like a mess of scarves in all colors and prints, like she’s imitating a kaleidoscope, meets me in the entryway of Bill’s Food and Drink. I swear she looks familiar.

“Mr. Milano, come this way.” She grips my arm and takes me inside the restaurant without another word. I guess she’s the matchmaker, and she’s serious about her job, and the only introduction she’s making is to my date. No need to know who the hell she is, right?

“And you are?” I ask as I follow her deep into the familiar Old-World dining room.

“The matchmaker.” She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes on wherever we’re going. She doesn’t look annoyed or pleased, only determined, with a game face on that I’d envy if I didn’t already have a killer one of my own.